


Shifting Ground

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Gift Fic, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-28 08:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: "It's a curious idea, is it not? Like the start of a joke: an Orlesian mage and a Carta dwarf fall in love."





	Shifting Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tafka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafka/gifts).

To call the Herald's cabin _disorganized_ would be an undeserved flattery. 

As far as Vivienne knows, the circumstances of Cadash's arrival in Haven meant that all her belongings besides the clothes on her back were incinerated at the Conclave, which makes the number of knick-knacks strewn about the place seem somewhat suspicious. Presumably people refrained from commenting on her habit of larceny, petty and otherwise, out of politeness.

In the middle of the clutter, Cadash is packing, glancing over her shoulder as Vivienne takes a step over a pile of magical artifacts that most definitely does not belong in the hands of a dwarf. 

The one neat corner of the cabin holds a weapons rack, on which an assortment of swords and axes are placed in order of size. A cat emerges from behind it and stalks across the room, jumping up on the bed and positioning itself to glare rather maliciously. All the more so because it's missing one eye and half an ear on the left side.

"Do you have a problem with rats, Herald?" Vivienne wonders, keeping a careful distance.

She would rather not have her robes ruined by claw marks. Bad enough that the muddy snow has already stained the boots which she had delivered upon her arrival in Haven irreparably. Boots which promised much and delivered little. If she was not so very far away from home she would take the proper measures, but as it is, she must contend with cold feet.

In truth, she had not expected Haven to be quite so cold, a mistake she will not make again. She's been assigned a room in the Chantry so freezing cold at night she would have thought it a personal slight if it hadn't been the work of Ambassador Montilyet, who herself seems quite pale in the mornings, wrapped up in a great number of ruffled shawls, before she has downed her habitual warming cup of tea.

The Herald's cabin seems no less cold, the windows offering little shelter from the wind, but there are, of course, ways to keep warm. Early that morning while suffering a brisk walk in a bid to warm herself up, Vivienne couldn't avoid noticing the girl who runs the tavern sneaking out of the Herald's cabin, employing less than the barest modicum of discretion. All things considered, she cannot begrudge the Herald such comforts in the cold.

"It's too cold for rats," Cadash says. "The cat was here before I moved in. I think I'm her lodger. And I'm not sure she's all that happy about it."

"It's dreadfully ugly," Vivienne points out.

"Those are battle scars. It's called character."

"That's not character, my dear, it's spite."

"Are you here for a reason, Vivienne?"

Vivienne does very few things without a reason, as the Herald will no doubt learn, sooner or later. "You're packing for tomorrow," she says, giving the half-finished bag a cursory glance. "I'll be coming with you, of course."

"Funny," Cadash says, "I don't remember inviting you."

"An unfortunate oversight you need not dwell on."

"I've already planned my party."

"You may bring whomever you please, Herald, but you really ought not go on these little excursions without a competent mage."

"And that means you?"

"Obviously."

"I guess I always found swords more useful than magic." Cadash puts her hands on her hips, letting her gaze linger on Vivienne; appraising, assessing, analyzing. "You'd really want to come?" 

The Herald has a good eye, Vivienne knew that since she first walked into Bastien's estate. Her good sense was not a prerequisite for making the Inquisition worth Vivienne's time, but it certainly makes the endeavor a more enjoyable one.

She watched her from the atop the stairs then, taking her time to make up her mind, seeing the steps of the Game before her. Cadash stood out, dressed poorly for such a soiree, easily drawing the eyes of everyone present. Did she even know how she made herself the center of the room? Did she do it on purpose? Was it the magic on her hand that made the world shift to accommodate her presence or something else entirely?

"_Everything you've heard?_" she said, words wafting up the stair-case. "_Completely true._"

Green sparked through her left hand glove, subtle through the sturdy fabric but unmistakably otherworldly. Dangerous, unstudied magics, in the palm of a dwarf, one who lacked even the potential for a connection to the Fade. Such a curious incongruity must be handled with utmost care. 

"I said I would assist you in whatever work you do toward sealing the Breach," Vivienne reminds her now, "including on the field of battle. It seems to have slipped your mind."

Giving a casual shrug, Cadash tilts her head, smirk revealing a dimple in her cheek. "I guess I just think of you more as an indoor mage, Vivienne."

Letting a cold silence fall between them, Vivienne narrows her eyes ever so slightly: a warning to be heeded. The Herald does not know her. Has, in fact, given her a wide berth since she arrived in Haven. She conscripted the rebel mages into the Inquisition and still she does not turn to her, even while she is uniquely qualified to offer advice.

There's only so long she can toil in a drafty Chantry hall, exchanging insults with Fiona, perfecting her plans and turning them every which way until they are practically written into her skin before it becomes rather tedious. She will not be passed over again.

"I'm quite able to handle the elements," she says, the tone of her voice brooking no argument. "And I'd advise you to be less hasty in making assumptions in the future." 

Cadash squints. "But Vivienne — I'm going to a _swamp_."

"Then I will make sure to wear appropriate footwear."

* * *

The fire is burning low, and Seeker Pentaghast and Warden Blackwall are asleep in their tent. She will join them, soon, and let the Herald take first watch.

The Fallow Mire is deceptively quiet at night, but one mustn't be fooled. The plague that ravished the area may or may not be of natural origin — such infectious diseases come and go in many places — but what lingers behind is distinctly magical in nature. It simmers under the surface of the water, making the slippery swamp floor shift under their feet, raising the dead from its depths, and leaving everything tainted.

Perhaps the Herald was right in her plans to not bring a mage: the Fade presses close here, pushing against her throat. A very dangerous place for a mage who does not take care to stay vigilant. 

"Your sword," Cadash says from where she stands watch, in the shadows. "How did you do that?"

She takes a few steps closer to where Vivienne is seated, close to the fire. In the dark, Cadash's brown eyes seem like the deepest black, long eyelashes casting shadows over her skin. It is the first time Vivienne has seen her hesitate.

They fought their first skirmish earlier that day, a small battle against walking corpses, over almost before it began. It was no doubt the first time Blackwall and Cadash had cause to fight alongside a Knight-Enchanter. Cassandra, who trained with the Divine's forces at the Grand Cathedral, of course did not blink.

Her training has lapsed in recent years — complacency in the face of relative security and so many other things to occupy her time — and she is sore from the unfamiliar strain, but she keeps her back straight, her movements fluid and easy. There's no reason to share such things; her form is always flawless regardless, woven into her very bones.

"Are you asking about the magical theory behind conjuring a spirit blade?" Vivienne asks. "One imagines it might be somewhat outside your area of expertise."

"I'm sure you're just dying to dumb it down for me. You should have said you had a magic sword. Everyone knows how I feel about sharp objects."

"If you truly prefer swords to magic, as you claim, I wonder why you did not turn to the Templars rather than the rebel mages last month."

Cadash leans on her axe, which is nearly as tall as she is. "You don't have to mince your words. I already know you disapprove."

"I do not disapprove for the sake of it, Herald," Vivienne says, looking into the fire, "but I question the strategy of not recruiting a ready-made army of soldiers in favor of people who not only cast aside everything that made them civilized, but also signed themselves over to a Tevinter magister."

"I don't really want an army, Vivienne."

Vivienne studies her. Even in the dark her freckles are visible, and there is a small scar marring the line of her eyebrow. It's obvious she felt sorry for mages in Redcliffe, but empathy will get her nowhere. One must shield oneself against suffering or compassion will be nothing but an anchor. Nothing will be accomplished that way, nothing useful. A hard lesson to learn, and she would rather not be the one to teach it.

"I get that you're pissed at the mages who burned down your Circles," Cadash continues, "and yeah, the Templars would be better in a fight. But there were kids in Redcliffe. Kids and Tranquil and people who aren't soldiers. Sure, they may be idiots and Fiona isn't exactly my favorite person, but I wasn't about to let Alexius keep them as his little pets just because they made some stupid choices."

"I am well aware of the situation. It is your failure to assess the risks I cannot condone."

"So if you were making the calls, you would have left them there?"

"I would have, yes. Not because I am blind to suffering, but because I understand the dangers better than most. Certainly better than you."

"So maybe it was a stupid risk. Payed off, though."

"You are very sure of yourself, but you cannot possibly know the long-term consequences of your actions."

"I'm seeing it through. The consequences will be mine to bear. And I'm sure you'll be there to say 'I told you so'."

"It won't bring me any joy to do so. But yes, you may count on it."

Cadash's smirk is downright impish. 

If there was more to be said on the matter, the chance is taken from them by the sound of a long, guttural groan rippling through the dark. Cadash flinches, smile slipping off her face. 

Another walking corpse, rising from the water, disturbed by who knows what. It seems to seek them out, lured by the fire or the warmth of their bodies, or perhaps something else entirely. Cadash is perfectly able to handle it on her own, but Vivienne follows her anyway, lingering behind her without drawing her staff or her spirit blade, watching Cadash swing her axe as if it weighed as little as a feather. 

With a snap of her fingers, she freezes the walking corpse a mere moment before the axe hits its mark. It shatters into a thousand pieces of frozen, rotting flesh. Better than unfrozen, certainly. They are hardly in a position to bathe.

The mark on the Herald's hand flares sharply, reacting to something — be it Vivienne's magic, the undead, or perhaps simply the rush of battle. It's magic the likes of which Vivienne has never seen before, which ought to make anyone with sense uneasy.

"Does your hand hurt, Herald?" Vivienne asks when they've returned to the fire. "Let me look at it."

"Solas already did what could be done."

"Solas is an apostate without the privilege of formal training. With the Circle libraries in shambles it will be hard to do research, but I have every intention of finding out whatever I can about this."

"Go on then. Study me." 

She stretches out her hand for Vivienne, allowing her to turn it over, palm up. There is nothing to see on her skin, which carry callouses from her axe and a number of small, faded scars on her fingers. Only when Vivienne brushes her thumb over her palm and opens herself to the Fade, letting the heady power of it fill her up, does the mark make itself known, flaring green under her skin in response.

Glancing up, Vivienne wonders at the hard set to her mouth. "This place bothers you."

"Why would you think that? Who doesn't love a good plague?"

Letting the silence lie between them until Cadash speaks, words pulled out of her as surely as if Vivienne had used her voice to ask.

"No one actually asked after the Conclave," she says, giving a shrug. "I don't know if they assumed I went there on my own or if the fact that I was there to spy made everyone squeamish."

Vivienne remains silent. There is little to say in return, after all. The rebellion has stripped her of friends and colleagues, acquaintances and childhood companions alike. She won't abide by another loss, not if she can help it. Failure is not an option.

"Who?" she asks in the end.

"People who won't be remembered or missed. Criminals and thugs, like me. I mean, I'm Carta, we're not known for our healthy lifestyles and long lives."

"Malika," she starts, finding herself holding her hand a little tighter. 

"Please don't call me that, it makes me sound like someone who owns clothes without holes and likes to small talk about the weather."

"It is only bodies. Their souls have long since fled."

"I'm sure that's a great comfort to those who loved them."

Even as she lets go of her hand, the warmth of it lingers on her skin. A shared confidence always seals a covenant of sorts. Words hold great power, and trust is a most dangerous currency.

Cadash leans against her axe again, a strange look on her face that Vivienne cannot interpret. The silver rings in her ears gleam in the light from the fire, and standing the way she does, she seems cut from stone. 

"Good night, Herald," Vivienne says, and turns towards the tents.

* * *

Haven falls.

High in the mountains, she heals the wounded, distracting herself from what new plans needs to be made. She is no spirit healer, like the former Grand Enchanter who wields her craft with skill Vivienne cannot match, but all Knight-Enchanters know enough healing to keep themselves and their comrades standing on the battle field.

Would the Templars have been enough to keep Haven standing? Perhaps they might have saved them a little time, dying as soldiers do to spare others. But a Templar could not spare lives and ease suffering here in the mountains, like those who've trained in the healing arts. 

"What will this Inquisition do now, I wonder," Fiona says, crouching on the ground over a bleeding soldier, hands pressed to his wounds. "She has been the leader in all but name for some time."

The Inquisition does not stand or fall with one person. The ability to close Fade rifts is but one aspect of what they were and they will find new purpose.

They will have to adapt. _She_ will have to adapt — she has spent her life doing that very thing, adjusting to accommodate new circumstances, finding ways to gain from every new turn, good and bad. Perhaps she would find it easier to do so now if she was not so weary from the battle, the healing, the endless snow to trudge through. They are out of lyrium, and she has begun to resent the many injured still waiting. 

"Seeker Pentaghast would find the mantle suitable, I think."

Fiona does not like her reply. "_You_ are here by choice," she says. "We are not. I have only respect for Seeker Pentaghast, but I would not happily follow one who is little more than a Templar."

One does not become the Grand Enchanter by chance, nor by magical skill alone. Fiona is very likely one of the best healers in the southern Circles, and for some time, she was the First Enchanter of Monstimmard. Once, before she abandoned duty and sense both, Vivienne trusted her judgment implicitly. 

"I suppose the matter is academic. As you say, you have little choice in the matter, do you, my dear?"

Fiona looks at her, as a Grand Enchanter looks at a First Enchanter, as a First Enchanter looks at those in her care. "Perhaps the Herald prevailed," she says. "She is a woman of extraordinary circumstance, after all."

Those words turn prophetic when the Herald does return from the presumed dead, stumbling onto their scouts, frozen, battered and bruised, but very much alive. Striving forward with relentless pursuit, digging herself out of an avalanche, demonstrating something beyond simple bravery: an unstoppable idiocy.

Besides injuries from the battle and frostbite from her long walk, she is scratched up from head to toe by the cat she carried from the wreckage of Haven all the way up the mountain. The creature is left in Blackwall's tender care, and Vivienne cannot claim not to feel a certain kind of contentment at seeing the claw marks running through his beard. 

She watches from a distance when Fiona heals her injuries. The relief is sharp, a knife's edge cutting through regret and grief. Much was lost, but the Herald lives. 

"The Herald has asked for you," Fiona announces when she returns to the healing hut.

"You may tell her I'm busy," she replies, turning her back on Fiona. 

Only when they have reached that hidden fortress in the mountains does she put herself in the Herald's path. Inquisitor now, as is only proper; it's the role she's fulfilled since the beginning, after all. 

One cannot avoid unpleasant tasks forever. 

She has recovered well, though her injuries are still healing, and it is obvious her hair has not been in the presence of a comb for some time. There is something still weary in her eyes, and it must be harnessed. The anger, the grief, the misery still present in the tired lines of her face. It won't be forgotten, and it won't be for naught, Vivienne will make sure of it.

"Act first," she says with emphasis, words ringing inside of her, "and teach them to fear us."

Cadash smiles, the stern lines of her face suddenly disappearing, the warm brown of her eyes shifting in the light from the sun. "You know, Viv, I don't think I'd want to get on your bad side."

"I should hope not."

"Don't get me wrong, I like your attitude. It speaks of a healthy world-view. It's not paranoia if they're all out to get you."

With some effort, Vivienne resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Darling, I've spent the better part of my adult life in Orlais. It's par for the course. One must never forget a slight, or a debt."

"If you were a dwarf, you would've fit right into the Carta."

"I'm sure," Vivienne replies, "I could only aspire to such heights."

* * *

"Inquisitor," Vivienne says, joining her where she stands on the balcony, leaning against the railing, "people will talk if you hide out here all night."

The moon is up, bathing the Winter Palace gardens below in a soft light. How lucky, it must hide the blood stains.

"That's rich coming from someone I've barely seen all night," Cadash says, giving her a quizzical look. "Where were you anyway?"

"The Inquisition will not be needed in perpetuity. When the time comes for me to return to Orlais, I would prefer to keep that which I have paid dearly for in the past."

"Well, you don't need to worry. Celene is alive and well."

Vivienne says nothing. The idea that the Empress life, spared or snuffed out, would be enough to protect her interests is foolish notion, but there is no reason to rob Cadash of such innocence. She carries much on her shoulders. 

"Guess I was expecting you to have more fun," Cadash continues at her silence. "I did. Dancing, murder, a party full of truly terrible people... it's just like home. Besides, it's a fucking shithole, but it's your shithole."

What a strange round-about world it is when a Carta dwarf enjoys an evening at the Winter Palace more than the Court Enchanter. "You have such a way with words, Inquisitor."

"I think Florianne had a thing for me."

"She did seem to be a woman completely lacking in taste. Did you see her shoes?"

"Now you sound like Leliana."

Turning to face her, Vivienne studies the profile of her face, reaching out to brush a curl of her hair from her cheek. "You mustn't let yourself be distracted, darling," she says. 

Cadash leans into the touch as if she's being touched by magic. "Don't worry, I think Florianne soured on me after I put her in chains."

She hadn't meant to ask, but it spills out unbidden, into the tender space between them. "There's something I'd like to ask of you. An errand, if you will."

"Alright."

"You haven't heard what it is yet."

"Don't need to. You want something, I'll do it."

So flippant, but the meaning behind the words is anything but. How easily she bends to Vivienne's will. Is there anything she can ask that Cadash will not find a way to accomplish? She never would have thought she'd find the list of books she requested of her, yet she did, delivering them promptly in a manner most careless, as if the task meant nothing at all.

It should make her feel powerful.

* * *

In a swamp in the Exalted Plains, with muddy water up to her knees, they finally catch up to the snowy wyvern they've been tracking. It's quick work, bringing it down; they've prepared and decided on strategy, and the poor beast has little chance to employ its deadly defenses. 

Once its last breath is drawn, Cadash makes a cut under its ribcage, reaching her whole arm in to retrieve her prize. 

The heart of a wyvern is big, not like the heart of a human or a dwarf, which would easily fit in her palm. Cadash holds it out in her left, the green of the Mark flaring unexpectedly, staining the blood in an eerie, flickering shade as it drips between her fingers.

Cadash cannot possibly know how much the heart in her hand means. To her, it's an errand, a simple favor, not the difference between life and death. So much worse, that she'd do this on a whim, simply because she was asked.

"Thank you, my dear," Vivienne says, keeping her tone light as she removes her gloves. There is nothing in her research that suggests it must be fresh to make the potion more effective, but there can be no harm in making sure it's carefully preserved.

"Sure, I'm here anytime you want anything killed," Cadash replies, the softness of her voice belying the casual words. "It's a specialty of mine."

Vivienne accepts the heart with both hands, slick and hot against her bare skin.

For a moment, their fingers touch around the flesh of the heart, and the feelings on Cadash's face are painfully plain to see. A lifetime in Orlais has made her unaccustomed to such open displays of emotion. More dangerous a beast than a wyvern, certainly, and for a moment she falters, fumbling for a way to shield herself against it. 

She finds it, of course, holding steady in the mud, even as it shifts and slips underneath her boots.

* * *

She watches Bastien burn and turns her back on the mansion that has been as much of a home to her as Montsimmard. Fire and death has stolen both of her homes, it seems. It's a lesson she would have preferred not to learn yet again.

Cadash gifts her with distance that Vivienne takes, and keeps until she's had her fill.

She's left herself awfully, terribly exposed. Too many private, delicate things have been left in the Inquisitor's hands, and she must learn to steel herself anew. 

It is the first time she's had occasion to visit her rooms. The Inquisitor is sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharpening the blade of an axe that is unfamiliar to Vivienne — a beautiful weapon, though rather over-sized for someone of her stature.

"Quite the view you have," she says, glancing out the open balcony doors, eyes caught by the misty lines of the mountains. "One does wonder what you're trying to prove with the size of that weapon?"

The smile, a sudden crack of sunshine on a cloudy day, takes her by surprise. 

"You like being the tallest person in the room," Cadash says. "I like being the one with the biggest axe. I'm short, it makes people take notice."

"I'm sure you're hard to miss regardless, darling."

"Yeah, I've heard it's my nose."

"There's no need to sell yourself short. Those freckles are also terribly unfashionable."

"I can always count on you to keep me humble, Viv."

The words are fond, the look in her eyes precious. She did not anticipate feeling quite so adrift, all roots pulled up, all anchors severed.

Hesitating for only the smallest of moments, she takes a few steps closer, resting her hand on the long handle of the axe. "Other than polishing your axe, do you have plans for the afternoon?"

"Cullen wanted to discuss something or another about the troops. I'm assuming that means there's a problem and he already has a solution, but it makes him feel better if I pat him on the head and tell him he's doing a good job."

She still towers over Cadash even as she kneels in front of her, putting her hand on the blade of her axe, savoring the sharp edge of it. "Perhaps I may claim part of your day," she says, phrasing it as a statement rather than a question.

Leaning in, she brushes her lips against the freckles on her cheek.

Cadash, blushing beautifully red, eyes round and dark, seems to have lost her words, which is nothing less than a miracle. Letting her gaze linger on the curve of her lips, Vivienne waits.

"And," Cadash says after a long moment, "just to be clear, how would you like to claim me—my day?"

Subtlety is, of course, utterly lost on her. 

"I'm sure you can think of something," Vivienne says, foregoing circumlocution and choosing instead to cup her jaw, tracing fingers along the precious line of it, thumb touching the corner of her mouth.

When Vivienne finally kisses her, Cadash makes a small, pitiful noise, and Vivienne basks in it.

"I mean, screw Cullen," Cadash says when they part. "What about... your Duke?"

"What about him? Bastien and I were together for a very long time, and he was married long before he met me. Our bond was not based on exclusivity. Even if it was... well. It wouldn't be relevant, would it?"

"Oh," she says. "I get it."

She couldn't possibly. There is nothing to read on Vivienne's face except what she chooses to put there, but Cadash's frown smooths out, and she gives her the softest look, too tender by far. Vivienne despises it, resents it, _craves_ it.

Putting her hand on Cadash's neck, Vivienne kisses her again, until her breathing stutters, until she's freed her of the misconception that her assumptions are welcome. Tenderness is costly, and always hard to come by, but passed the callouses and scars of her hands, under the heavy leather of her clothes, Cadash yields easily to her touch, all soft, warm and wet. 

Afterward, Vivienne laces up her trousers, corset and robes, allowing Cadash the privilege of watching her from where she sprawls on the bed. There's still a flush on her cheeks, hair a lovely mess of curls.

Looking out over the mountains, the snow-covered peaks turned hazy by the mist, she longs to see something new. "Take me somewhere cold, my dear."

Cadash favors her with a long look that hold too much intimacy, too much worry, too much hurt and too much care. 

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

"So you want to be Divine. You could have just told me."

Cadash stands with her hands on her hips, and she is far too short to make an impression that way, even to Vivienne who is seated comfortable on her chaise-longue. Crossing her arms, Vivienne narrows her eyes. "I thought I _was_."

"Funny." Cadash smirks, lop-sided and amused. "It sounded like you were trying to get me to suggest it."

"We cannot all be as crude as you, Inquisitor."

Bothered not at all, Cadash tilts her head as she keeps her eyes trained on Vivienne, too sharp for her own good. Trust is a perilous thing, best kept close to the heart. "Didn't peg you as the religious type, Viv."

"I don't believe it's a topic we've discussed."

"Yeah, exactly. Do you think I wonder how Cassandra or Leliana feel about Andraste? Somehow, the topic always mysteriously comes up."

Vivienne uncrosses her arms only to take a measured sip from her tea. "In that case," she says, "I assume your own piety is questionable at best."

Cadash gives a little shrug. "Dwarves aren't exactly welcomed with open arms in the Chantry. And half of us still pray to the fucking Stone, even though it wants nothing to do with us."

"I'm sure your family's exile from Orzammar had nothing to do the crimes you committed."

"Orzammar," Cadash sighs dreamily, "the crowning armpit of dwarf society. I think I prefer the flip side."

"Ah, yes, the slums of Ostwick are much preferable, of course. So refined."

"When have I ever given you the impression of being refined, Viv?"

Giving Cadash a discerning look, Vivienne drinks her tea, and when she next speaks, she keeps her tone icy. "Do not presume you know what I believe and not."

As usual, Cadash ignores the hint, sitting — _flopping_, rather — down in a chair opposite Vivienne. "I didn't mean that I _cared_. Just that I don't get why you'd want it."

"Regardless. Your assistance isn't required."

"Oh, of course I'll do it. You know I love it when you scheme. Besides, Cassandra is going to have _conniptions_, it's going to be fantastic."

* * *

"It's a bit unfair, you know."

Dorian settles back on his chair with careless elegance, glass dangling from his fingers. The summer is turning into autumn, but Skyhold is sheltered from the cold winds of the mountains, and the sun is warm on Vivienne's balcony. She keeps her sleeves rolled up, enjoying the warmth while it lasts. 

Taking a careful sip from her wine, Vivienne waits for him to continue, as he no doubt will, whether anyone wishes him to or not.

"The two of you are practically attached at the hip these days. Meanwhile, I have to acquire and ship luxury beverages at great personal cost for you to spend the afternoon with me."

"Don't be absurd, darling, the wine is decent at best."

"You give her special treatment."

"My dear Lord Pavus, what are you trying to imply? That I'm currying favor? I am not a courtier."

"I'm only bringing it up because it's obvious she has this adorable little crush on you. You really ought to put her out of her misery. It's the kind thing to do."

"Your imagination is truly a work of art. Not good art, of course."

"It's a curious idea, is it not? Like the start of a joke: an Orlesian mage and a Carta dwarf fall in love."

"Almost as entertaining as the idea of a Tevinter mage and a Qunari mercenary falling in love, don't you think?"

"Hm," he says, and it's painfully obvious that not even an Orlesian mask would help him in the Game, Orlesian or Tevinter alike. He puts up a valiant fight, but no one strikes so quickly and lethally that they can win with such a poor defense.

Luckily for him, the Inquisitor's cat chooses that moment to appear from the shadows, skulking across the room, eyes sharp as glass.

"Maker," Dorian says, sitting up straight for once, "what is that beast doing here?"

"The Inquisitor will not appreciate you calling her favorite pet such names."

"It's not a pet, it's a murderous monstrosity risen from the most wretched depths of the Abyss. Did you know it left a dead lizard on Josephine's desk the other day?"

"I'm sure it was a gift."

"More like a threat. 'Get me better food or I'll come for you next'. Have you ever tried to pet it? It nearly cost Cullen his hand."

"It's called integrity, darling. I'm sure it's unfamiliar to you." 

Pausing, Vivienne puts her empty glass down, brushing her fingers over her arm, distracted for a moment by the memory of Cadash's hands. "You need not worry about the Inquisitor," she continues. "We are well acquainted by now. I like her for what she can do for me. That is not a secret."

Dorian shakes his head with a chuckle. "Never change, Vivienne."

* * *

Change is inevitable.

In the end, the clerics make the right choice. She carries the knowledge with her as they go out to face Corypheus one final time — this is the easier battle, the one where there was never any doubt as to their eventual triumph. 

The feast after is a lively affair, as such things should be.

"You are making a habit of this, Inquisitor, Vivienne says as she joins her on her balcony, overlooking the mountains. "People will start to think you don't enjoy a good celebration."

"I know, the sun is rising and I'm still standing. I must be a terrible disappointment to the Carta and dwarf-kind in general. I heard, by the way. Congrats. Don't say you couldn't have done it without me."

"Well," Vivienne says, allowing herself a small, triumphant smile, "I would, nevertheless, like to thank you."

"You should take Her Majesty with you when you leave," Cadash says, gesturing at her cat, currently luxuriously splayed out on her desk, giving them a rather sour one-eyed glare. "Are there rats in the Great Cathedral?"

"One imagines it's rather packed to the rafters."

"I know a thing or two about weeding out those kinds of rats, if you find yourself with an infestation."

"I'm familiar with your methods. I suspect a more delicate touch will be necessary."

"Well, if you ever need anyone to stand around looking menacing with a big axe, I'm the dwarf for the job."

Pausing, Vivienne takes a breath, and another. "You will need to work on your penmanship, Inquisitor," she says, keeping her words even. "I expect letters."

Cadash laughs, the unabashed adoration in her eyes turning the chilly morning air between them warm. Bastien would have adored this foolish, brash, soft-hearted dwarf. And he would have laughed, too, had he known. 

"You know," Cadash says, smile turning sly, "if you're going to dedicate the rest of your life to the Chantry, you really ought to enjoy yourself now. Before that Chantry celibacy kicks in."

"Maker, is this your idea of seduction?"

Leaning in ever so slightly, the morning light turns Cadash's eyes golden. "Is it working?"

Reaching out to tap her fingers against the back of her hand, the mark sparks green against the railing. She still does not know if it reacts to her magic or simply the intimacy of her touch, and in truth, her research has fallen wayside in favor of more pressing matters. 

Threading their fingers together, the memory is so clear she can practically smell the swamp water soaking through her boots. Cadash, holding out her left hand, blood dripping through her fingers, the green of the mark flaring around the bright red Wyvern heart.

Whatever magic it contains, however much one must always stay vigilant against he unknown — if her hand belongs to anyone at all, it belongs to _her_.

"What a fool you are," Vivienne murmurs, moving her fingers from her hand to her cheek.

"Ooh, insults. Don't stop."

"Do you think me so sentimental I followed you up here to look at the sunrise, darling?"

"It's a pretty sunrise."

Slowly and assuredly, Vivienne moves her hands to Cadash's neck, unwrapping her scarf, and to her chest, undoing her buttons, all the way down. "I've seen a thousand like it."

"Wow. Did you ever think about taking up poetry?"

Leaning down to press her lips to Cadash's forehead, her whole body leans in, hands coming to rest on Vivienne's hips. The ground shifts, and she is steady in the face of it.

"You have my thanks, Inquisitor," she says, so quietly that even were they not alone, the words would be for Cadash's ears only. "And I am not likely to forget."


End file.
